


Nightly Eyes

by AlexNow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asylum, Insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexNow/pseuds/AlexNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">“Patient 137 is having problems yet again.”</span>
  <br/>
  <span class="small">“Is it Winchester?”</span>
  <br/>
  <span class="small">“Ain’t it always?”</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iseeangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iseeangels/gifts).



> This fanfiction is dedicated to my dear enemy, Gmail. I drugged her dog, by the way.  
> I was supposed to gift her another fanfiction, but it's been delayed so I decided to start this instead. Sorry D: Haha. Anyway, I hope I manage to make this as weird and I get everything right. This is not my official revenge, by the way.  
> Don’t judge me with this. I’m barely on episode 17 of the first season of this. I barely know a thing and the reason why I started to see it was because I wanted to see what was so special about it that everyone on Tumblr loved. I tried...  
> Haha (: Anyway, please enjoy and state what I missed. Though remember this is only a fanfiction. I may mention things (or not mention things) and they are not accidental. Either way, if I read any spoilers in the comments I will personally take it upon myself to eviscerate you.  
> This was inspired by the movie, 'Shutter Island'.  
> -Alex

“Patient 137 is having problems yet again.”

“Is it Winchester?”

“Ain’t it always?”

These types of dialogues between people working in the building are common and frequent, especially working in the dull building C; it’s the building for the most insane, after all. For the irrepressible, some would even say. You are unlucky if you are chosen to be there every day. It’s all old news, the warnings that would come to new nurses, young and far too naive to have to deal with maniacs at such a young age. Some would go along with the lines, “Careful with Winchester, ma’am. You don’t want to get involved with that one. It’s a feisty one”; because that’s all they are, animals.

‘It’, referred to even an object. But they know better than to say that in front of Patient 137. They _have_ known better, ever since that precise hostage (because that’s all they are) stabbed the doctor on the shoulder when Dr. Hendrickson threw his pills at him, like a stray dog. Lord knows how he even got hold of that knife.

_“Make sure you never accidentally give him a knife, whether it’s plastic or not.”_

It’s been accustomed by all personnel to gather Saturday nights when all patients are asleep and they attempt to relax in the largest area of all, the entertainment room where the television stands along with genuine porcelain plates and real silverware. All but the guards get to meet up, and act as if they are at a friendly gathering and not a Mental Institution where someone gets hurt on a daily basis.

_“Don’t forget to give him his pills three times a day, without water so he has to swallow them dry, or else he’ll turn violent.”_

The Institution had mostly been financed by the government, but after a few years all those politicians (after giving all those vacant promises to keep the constructions and gardens steady –unlike the people inside-) forgot, and now with the money they obtain they try to carry on, which is also the motive why many security cameras in the patients’ rooms don’t function anymore.

_“And **never** call him Sammy.”_


	2. The Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't proofread or check any grammar and such. I was just desperate to post this already. Anyway, I finished this much earlier than I thought. Once again, this is for Gmail. I hope you magically find your dog locked up in a room full of potatoes.

The day begins pleasantly enough, with the sun elevated up in the sky but a careful breeze soothing Ms. Francis’ hair. She’s eyeing a couple patients which are freely on foot, walking around; some delicately touching the rose petals, others admiring the view of the buildings from the outside. It was her turn to watch them, nevertheless. It was also well known that it was her responsibility today to clean Patient 137 as well, but she wordlessly prayed that it’d be forgotten or dismissed, seeing as she is _far_ too busy guarding, along with three other nurses, each on one corner.

She has only been trusted with an assignment that entails Patient 137 on one occasion, since she is new, and it was merely to provide him his medicine. In the end she felt pusillanimous and instead open the door and left the tablets in the room on a napkin without even looking inside. She had squeaked so piercingly at the thought of all of the sudden feeling a hand on her wrist that she nearly closed the heavy door on her fingers, but luckily none of that happened. She by no means heard any noise coming from inside and she began to wonder if perhaps Patient 137 was still breathing. _The silent ones are always the most vicious,_ She has repeated to herself.

Now, though, that isn’t an alternative. She can’t just leave all the material on the entrance and expect the man she’s never seen before to clean himself and grant her the things without seeing her after. For all she knows, this Patient 137 might drink his own dirty water. Lauren wonders if it’s a test to see if she’s good with patients so, of course, they’d make her clean the face of one of the most treacherous _prisoners_ here.

“Lauren!” Albert bellows, and she sighs. She had expected far too much.

Inside the building she is given a towel and a plastic bowl to fill with warm water along with soap. She is told by Albert that only his face and hair have to be taken care of, since his body was washed a few days ago. When she is ready she bites on her lower lip far too hard and she catches the eye of a couple workers. All of them have a pitiful gaze.

At arriving at the room, the old silver plate stating _‘137’,_ she feels her heart pounding through her chest and she even takes the time to close her eyes and pause at the door. She thinks the paranoia and psychosis have passed on to the staff as well after so many years. How could they leave a new nurse to be close to an unsafe individual unaccompanied with no surveillance cameras? She mutters under her breath and forces herself to concentrate on her task.

Lauren doesn’t know exactly how to announce her existence so the patient doesn’t lash at her (A cheery “Hello!” seems highly inappropriate) so she settles on knocking once before opening the door.

The first thing she notices is a firm back facing her, a figure seated on his bed and greasy floppy hair going down to his neck, but not surpassing it.

“Hi?” She asks more than says and holds her hand up to reveal the container with soap and the towel even though he can’t see it from his position, “I—uh, cleaning?”

**~.~.~.~**

The moment Lauren walks in everyone quiets, and they just stare at her, as if calculating all the ways Patient 137 could have hurt her, if not physically, mentally. She pauses for a while and feels her cheeks turn a bright red but goes her way. What she does do, though, is go up to Albert and immediately start ranting on how insane he was for letting her even _near_ Patient 137.

“Are you insane?!” She concludes with her eyebrows knitted together and her face turns even redder, “Oh, wait, I forgot! Clearly! You work in a fucking madness club!”

Albert closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, puts his hand up and Lauren angrily stays silent, since she was far too angry to speak anything else anyway.. He shakes his head and says, “You were never in danger, Lauren.”

She opens her mouth to protest but his expression and the hold of his hand makes her close her mouth.

“Patient 137 has never hurt any woman before, and he hasn’t killed anyone at all ever since he arrived.”

“Oh, wow!” She says sarcastically, “I’m so glad that he happens to have some fucking morals that he _obviously_ never breaks! Now I see why you are so desperate for new employees in this place. Everyone else leaves with their own mental traumas of their own!”

Albert shakes his head once more and begins to walk away towards his office. For a moment Lauren thinks that he is going to leave her standing there while everyone wordlessly watches but when he waves his hand towards him and she understands that he wants her to follow.

“Who is he?” She demands once they step into his office, and she ignores the guilt she feels when the creases on his forehead deepen and his graying hair is ruffled when he runs a hand through it, pushing his glasses farther up his nose, “If I’m going to be working on him for the time I stay here I think I at _least_ deserve an explanation of who the fuck that guy is!”

She doesn’t ask why he seemed so normal, quiet and doing as she said so (“Hold your hair back, please.”) and why someone his age would need to be put here. He looked healthy, muscle and still not deadly thin like everyone else here. She _did_ need to know his story though, the curiosity was too much to handle.

Albert seems too troubled to respond though, and eventually he points to the chair in front of her and he sits on his own across the table. She sits and sits straight up, waits.  He never says anything though, just hands her a picture. As she takes it she notices it is Patient 137, before he was and with a huge grin across his features. Unlike any other patient, nice and youthful, even. Even though she knows the answer, she asks.

“That’s him?”

Albert shrugs and lets her stare at the concerned eyebrows and uncertain smile, “Well, he doesn’t look exactly different.”

She doesn’t look away from the photo, “Why is he here? Who is he?”

Albert finally takes the photo back and she seems startled as he yanks on it and throws it into a drawer. He seems uncomfortable with the thought of talking about the young man, but the desperation on not losing any more staff makes him speak.

“That’s Samuel Winchester. Maniac. Assassin. Schizophrenic,” He presses his lips together and takes his eyeglasses off, stares at his desk, “He’s got many problems. One being how he managed to create this whole world for himself, where everything has a reason.”

“How so?” She asks, and she’s leaning on the desk, desperate to catch onto every word that escapes the man’s lips. Against his will, he is forced to talk. Everyone knows about Patient 137 either way. It wouldn’t have been long before she discovered it for herself.

“He thinks there are demons and spirits and that the devil is after him, he blames them for all wrong that’s happened to him.”

“So he thinks that he’s in hell?”

“Practically, only here on Earth. He lost his mother, father burned her alive,” He ignores her eyes widen and her look taken aback, “Sam believes it was a demon. He says that his older brother saw it, but Mr. Winchester –his brother- says that Samuel has been having all these, say, _illusions_ for a while now.”

Lauren has never heard a patient been referred to by his first name. Usually it’s by the last and, most commonly, their number ( _“Patient 137”,_ there are too many tales about him, but Lauren wants to learn the real one). Hearing Albert talk about the craziest one here with even a nickname, it is obvious Patient 137 has been here for a while and Albert has had to go through a lot thanks to him.

“When did they start,” She asks, “The illusions?”

“They started after their father left,” He basically grumbles, and seems far too engrossed in a file packed with documents which most likely don’t concern anything he’s trying to find, ”Mr. Winchester said Sam started to say something about finding the thing that killed their mother, and Mr. Winchester thought he meant their father. That they should find their father, since Samuel never said anything else.”

“What did he mean?” Lauren whispers, as if afraid someone else could hear them.

Albert visibly finches and ignores her, “Mr. Winchester saw how the death of their mother affected Sam, and offered for a road trip with him, to get him away from college and the pressure,” He paused and finally threw the folder of files into a drawer, “Sam started going insane.”

Lauren snorts and leans back, turns her head and says into her shoulder, “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“He started to believe his brother and him were on a road trip to find their father _and_ kill the supernatural thing that killed their mother. When Mr. Winchester noticed, he tried to get Samuel to remember that it was their father who killed their mother.

“Mr. Winchester described that Sam started yelling at him, in a way Sam had never done to him before in all their childhood and he forced Mr. Winchester to drive him back to college… where he killed his girlfriend of three years.”

Lauren swallowed, and tried to remember after all she’s been told the calm composure of the man in room 137 while she tried to clean his face and hair. The way he stared at her, seeming curious and collected. For a moment she had thought he was attractive, but finds herself being repulsed at the thought of him having the blood of his lover in his hands.

“How did he kill her?”

There’s a long silence, and Lauren’s shallow breaths are the only ones breaking it seeing as Albert has obviously had this talk before; possibly someone apart from Mr. Winchester, as the Director of the Institution.

“He burned her alive,” At her shocked silence, he continues, “Now, he keeps saying it was the same demon that killed their brother, which their father called and said it was a demon after he went on the road trip. Mr. Winchester found out it was his brother who killed Jessica, the girl, but he refused to believe it. So, he helped him escape before he has bought out as a witness. Made everyone believe they were still on the road trip when it happened and Samuel was never believed to have done it.”

“His brother _helped him?!_ ” Lauren yelled, her eyes blown, and Albert gives her an unenthusiastic gaze.

“He had to. He said he felt that it was his job, to keep his little brother safe ever since they lost both their parents. Their father never came back and their mother’s dead. What else could he have done?”

Lauren feels like telling him he could have done much more and spared the life of others, but considering she has no siblings she can’t find herself to be one to judge.

“The road trip was described to have been normal. Mr. Winchester said Sam never did anything out of ordinary again for a long period, but when they were in Montana he started to ramble about all these visions he was having in his sleep and that there were spirits hurting people around. Mr. Winchester realized Sam thought they were on a Supernatural hunt to kill every paranormal thing that they found, and that Sam believed that they were looking for their father because he was on a quest to find the demon as well.”

Lauren stared. “So that’s when his brother brought Patient 137 here?”

Albert sighs and shakes his head. The feels herself freeze at the idea of Patient 137 have been free on the streets for a longer period of time, “Later on there was an assassin loose on the streets in a state I can’t remember. Mr. Winchester realized that the killings started when they entered into the state and followed Sam around for a while every time Samuel said he had to leave; ended up being the killer and blaming in on a thing that shape shifted or something of that sort. Mr. Winchester took the credit for his brother and they escaped. Their father called once and when they were in Chicago he appeared into their apartment; tried to kill both of them. They escaped again. Sam still wants to find his father so they could hunt down the demon together, the three of them. Believes his father is the good guy. The sad part’s Mr. Winchester thinks the same, because his father has always been his hero. That’s another reason why Sam ain’t getting any better.”

She shakes her head in exasperation and stares at Albert. She doesn’t realize that her cheeks are now decorated with lone tears streaming down her face and her eyes are blurry, realizing exactly what trouble she sucked herself into.

“Has his brother come back for him?” She asks.

“He’s come to visit on some occasions.”

“And Patient 137 hasn’t gotten one bit better?”

“He’s stopped attacking everyone who goes near him that aren’t his brother.”

“What about his father?”

“Mr. Winchester is trying to find him and get him to prison. He’s convinced that if his father is found and in jail, Samuel will be back to normal.”

“Do _you_ believe it?”

“That he’ll just forget everything and be stable again after his father is also dead? No, I don’t think so.”

**~.~.~.~**

“Yes, Samuel Winchester—No, I—Yes, I understand. Of course—Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

When Dean sets down his cell phone he sighs in frustration and starts angrily tapping the palm of his hand with the object. He stares at the ceiling and then finally gives into his aggravation and throws his cell phone against the wall. The stupid thing is so cheap it doesn’t even get a scratch. Practically a Nokia, if he’s being honest.

They refuse to let him see his brother _alone._ Seriously though, how could they be so naïve, when Sam has never attacked him once like he’s hurt the nurses and doctors, ever since he was put into the Institution? Dean admits that he and Sam have given each other a couple punches and kicks to the stomach, but even then Dean had always been the one to win. Whether Sam likes it or now, Dean will always be the strongest and the most rational when it comes to fighting. And, well, right now rational in everything else Dean is surprised to say he has surpassed his once caring and overly smart younger brother.

“Damn it, Sammy,” He mutters and throws a glare at the empty bed beside his of this crappy motel he was forced to live in, “What have you gotten me into?”

Grabbing the motel phone he dials the phone he knows by heart and is unsurprised to hear the voicemail. He doesn’t know why he allows himself to hope so much for so many things. Once the beep is heard, he starts talking.

“Hey, dad. Uh—it’s me, Dean. I just thought I’d let you know that we’re mostly fine, but Sam is locked up in a Mental Institution. Look, if you want to help out then I’ll be waiting, even after everything you’ve done. So—yeah. Bye.”

He crosses the room to retrieve his cell phone from the floor, stands up and loads his gun before he puts the safety pin and then hides it into his pants. He pauses at the door and takes it out, throws it under his bed. They wouldn’t have let him have it inside either way. Grabbing his jacket and putting it on, he exits the room and enters his slim back vehicle. As he drives to his destination, he finally sees a row of large gates and an old, rusty sign stating, _‘Gilbert Institution’_.

**~.~.~.~**

Once those words are uttered from Albert’s lips, everyone freezes with fear and they make excuses, saying they have to feed Patient this, clean Patient that or have any other errands such as watering the plants. No one wants to be too close for when it happens. It’s quite remarkable, Albert thinks, The way he thought he hired the men and women known for their bravery to work in a place like this. But when it’s about one simple order, they are all cowards.

 _“Go take him out.”_ That’s all it took to take all their pride away. Even the guards gave an unsure glance at him, as if asking if he were talking seriously. They do so, though. And soon they enter the huge white room dragging a limp body as he tries weakly to walk on his own and shove the guards off. They stay put of course, and try to pay no attention to the glares they receive from Patient 137.

“Sam.” Dean says once he sees his younger brother. He stands up to receive the patient with a warm hug, but is stopped by a guard’s hand in his way.

This is what always happens, but Dean never stops trying. He knows Sam would never hurt him and he still has a strong hope that one day he will be able to talk calmly to Sam again.. These wishes are useless, he knows, but he blames the intimidating stature of the guards, which are surely what makes his brother’s responses curt and indifferent.

In any other circumstance they’d never let him talk to Sam. At first it was like that. They’d come up with some bullshit about how talking to him will surely delay his ‘curing’ and then they’d warn him that he’ll hurt him. But then Sam started calming down and not once did he ever make a move to hurt Dean.

That’s what they still are, animals; animals with no emotions and no capacity to distinguish between enemy and family. Obviously, they were wrong. Only Dr. Guthrie (or Albert, as he insisted Dean to call him –even though he himself keeps calling Dean Mr. Winchester against his wishes-) has seen the vulnerability behind the malice in Sam’s eyes, but couldn’t do anything seeing how everyone else has refused to notice it.

The guard tells him to sit down (at this point Dean doesn’t know who he’s talking to, the patient or the visitor) and he does. Sam sits across and his just stares.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean says with a grin, and the guards visibly flinch at the mention of the nickname. He doesn’t question to himself why. He has a fair idea now that he’s remembers the odd strength Sam acquires when he gets annoyed at hearing it.

At the lack of response from Sam, he continues, “So what’s up? How are you?”

“I’m _fine._ ” Sam responds through gritted teeth. Dean nods understandingly and casually looks up to the ceiling.

“You _do_ look great. I mean, not as great as me but I see the place isn’t doing anything too permanent to your body mass. I would have thought that you’d be a walking skeleton by now. You look the same, just with those scary rings under your eyes but you’d always looked terrifying to me with that face of your, so…”

He trails off and tries to keep his grin ever present. Sam looks unfazed even though it’s the first time in a long time someone has called him anything but ‘It’ and ‘Patient 137’.

“It’s only been a week since the last time you were here.”

“So,” Dean says, ignores his brother’s comment, “What have they been feeding you anyway? Something good, I bet; heavy and full of proteins.”

The guards stay by Sam’s sides and one at the entrance. Dean compares it to prison (he’s visited it a couple times and it ain’t pretty) and he thinks there’s not much of a difference, he says, “How are you here? Are you ready to go home? One day, you know.”

Sam narrows his eyes and he sends an insufferable gaze his way, “Don’t act as if it’s possible.”

Dean nods slowly, “I called dad.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he immediately leans to the table, the guards moving on instinct to stop him before he hurts anyone, “What’d he say? Is he coming back?”

“He didn’t respond,” Dean says with his eyes strayed to the ground and he ignores the way he sees from the corner of his eyes how Sam’s shoulders lower, an action that no anyone would catch from a ‘maniac’, “And I left him a voice message explaining a bit of the situation. Maybe he’ll come back or call or—”

“He _isn’t_ going to do anything, Dean!” Sam yells, and the guards pull him back when he slams his fist on the table directly in front of Dean’s face, “He doesn’t care! He’s too busy trying to find that damn demon that turned this family apart in the first place! Forget it, Dean, he _doesn’t care._ ”

Dean doesn’t respond for a long moment and he leans back, doesn’t say that his father is gone for the wrong reason. Instead he asks how much food he has eaten throughout the day.

“About three pieces of bread and a glass of water. I’m not hungry.”

Dean nods and excuses himself, pays no attention as to saying goodbye to Sam and just leaves. He doesn’t turn around though he can hear the screech of a chair as the guards lead Sam back to his room. He nods to himself.

 _“Don’t act as if it’s possible.”_ Yes.

 _“About three pieces of bread.”_ At three, Dean can only guess he meant in the morning. It’s the quietest time of the day as when mostly everyone is asleep.

He sighs and enters his motel, throws the car keys on the bed and begins to formulate a diagram in his mind of the hospital’s passages, how to go unnoticed. When he looks down he chuckles to himself while twirling a pencil through his fingers and moves to the desk to turn on the lamp and look through the small paper Sam gave him, the moment he slammed his fist against the table in front of him, too quick for the guards to become aware of. Studying the Institution’s gates and vents, he mutters to himself and begins to memorize them. Fuck, how he hates studying.


	3. Escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end! I hope you enjoyed it, especially you, Gmail! :) Please give me your views.  
> -Alex  
> By the way, I'm thinking about a sequel, what do you think?

“Lights off!”

The voice is gruff. The usual man in a white suit and with the permanent scowl on his face is pictured into each one of the patients’ minds. They don’t have the determination to get up and check through their windows to see that familiar face. They don’t need to.

As the loud echo of the thud reaches their ears, slowly each strong light of the endless hallway turns off, leaving behind a trail of darkness. The rooms are mostly soundproof, not meant to be but the walls are thick enough to be considered. Even so, Sam hears around him each one stop wailing and yelling in pain or in sheer anger. They are tired and they get ready to endlessly stare at walls. That’s what their sleep is. They still don’t trust this place enough to close their eyes.

As is slowly fades away from any sound and the security guards get ready with their flashlights to guard the place and its strange passages connected with corridors, the figure of 137 lays on his mattress and he rests his arms behind his head. Then, he smiles.

**~.~.~.~**

Dean grits his teeth and glances once more at his watch, and the numbers _3:27_ glare up at him. He squints and sighs, throws his arm back to his side and groans. Staring up from behind the bushes to the tall white building in front of him, he mutters profanities under his breath, for only his ears to hear but from a large distance directed to his younger brother.

He is the one with the job of getting Sam out of jail, but there is Sam, probably sitting in his comfy white room, waiting for Dean to arrive. It’s easy for him to be a bit more at ease, seeing as he had not wasted the last six hours learning the track in which each corridor and each route the vents would lead to. But yet, Sam probably knows them already.

There are security cameras circling each edge of the gate and each opening, moving from one direction to another and then turning back, looking for intruders. The men behind the cameras probably are asleep, from the older Winchester’s experience, and off duty snoring like there’s no tomorrow since in a Mental Institution with those secured heavy, steel doors there rarely is any patient making an escape before getting caught and if Dean’s lucky then they aren’t cameras with motion detection or Dean’s in some deep trouble. But, well, Dean’s luck on two legs so all he has to worry about is deleting the footage and getting past the active guards with Sam on his tail.

It’s all about instinct, Dean reminds himself, and it’s all about doing what—

He doesn’t let himself finish, and he tries to surprise himself by jumping up and immediately running towards the gates, grabbing the edge and using his upper body strength to grip the silver railing and throwing himself into the air. His leg manages to catch on one of the blade at the top, catches onto his pants and he falls onto the ground.

Gasping, his makes himself stand up and as he continues running, trying to calculate the cameras’ blind spots from the dark, hoping he doesn’t miss a camera hidden between shadows. He risks a glance down, and he huffs while running towards a window when he sees a dark stain at the bottom of his jeans.

The _last_ thing he needs is to leave a blood trail on the -surely- white tiles of the building inside, and at the thought he grumbles more, leaning in the direction of the window as he arrives and then, hearing steps on the grass, presses his back on the wall.

(He finds it ironic, how they try to make it a joyful place by adding green grass and colorful flowers but all they manage is to make it more sinister looking.)

The dim circle of light appears dangerously close to Dean’s legs and his eyes widen, he tries to lean his back even more flat to the wall and more once he wishes to be thinner (He remembers reading that one _‘Flat Stanley’_ story and he thinks it’d be awesome to be like the smooth dude).

The man’s flashlight appears soon after, with the guard following it and Dean sees how firm his grip is on the handle.  No matter how much time he has worked here, it is obvious that the fear of having someone attack you with a hungry mouth and a knife doesn’t wear off.

As he walks away Dean’s eyes follow him and when the guard’s figure disappears into the next shadows he hurriedly turns and grabs the edges of the window. Seeing it screwed, Dean takes out his screwdriver and he hastily undoes it. He doesn’t seem to care that as soon as everyone wakes up to see Sam gone, they’ll check the windows and see the screws loosened from the outside, see that he didn’t put on the master plan alone, and soon not only will Sam be between the disappeared patients most wanted, but Dean will now not only be listed as a _murderer,_ but also someone who escapes with mental patients for a living. At least his reputation is living up to a good name.

It’s a Saturday night, meaning that all staff is gathered in one place and Dean at first found no pro in this, seeing as not only does he have to be careful with the guards, but also the awoken staff. Most of them should asleep by now, since tomorrow many still have work, but there are some still playing board games and such. Dean, all he has to do is change into some white personnel uniforms and he’ll blend right in.

And this is what he does with some skillful steps, emitting no sound and he enters the closet and quickly puts the clothes over. When he steps out and hears strained laughs and conversation, he starts grinning as well and casually walks around. He smiles kindly at a couple of women which  do nothing but stare at him, not seeming to be self-conscious enough to just glance and he even sends a wink, enjoying the surprised stare gaze he receives in return.

Just when he makes the first step upstairs he feels an arm around his shoulders and he is being pulled back down. When he looks up, he sees a friendly face.

“You new here?” The man asks, and he directs Dean back to the pathetic excuse of a party. Dean, starry-eyed, nods and he impatiently looks over his shoulder to the stairs, is forced to look back in front of him when he is being seated onto the couch.

“What’s your name? I don’t think Albert ever mentioned someone new here, didn’t know we needed more staff or if the Institution had enough money to pay.” The man continues, and his smile never falters. Soon, there is another man at his other side and a woman in front of him; all seeming to have gracious personalities and unwearyingly waiting for a response.

Dean hesitates, glances to the stairs, so close, and turns back, “Uh, Chuck. Speaking of which, where’s Albert?”

The man which had first talked to him nods and shakes his hand (Dean a little lost on what to do, to be honest, since his mind was still set on getting Sam).

“Name’s Vincent. Albert’s back sleeping. The old man can’t pass up his bedtime or he’s afraid we’d draw a mustache on his face while his asleep.”

The other man and woman laugh and Dean gives Vincent an edgy smile, forces a laugh and his gaze keeps shifting to the stairs. The woman seems to notice this and her beam instantly weakens. She soon forces a smile back on her face, though, and she sticks her hand out.

“I’m Lauren. I’m also new.”

Dean glances at her hand and when he notices that he had hesitated too much he takes it, shakes it hastily and lets it go. Her furrowed eyebrows mean nothing to him and he starts jerking around to get up again, an excuse almost falling on his lips until he hears a statement and his unregistered leave is ruined.

“Lauren, stop acting like that. You’re putting us all into discomfort with your attitude. I’m sure after your little episode Albert won’t make you go _near_ Patient 137 again.”

“Who’s Patient 137?” Dean immediately asks and he turns to look over his shoulder from Lauren to the man he learned to be named Hubert, to Vincent. They exchange a perturbed glance until they face him again and Dean completely turns his body to them.

“You don’t know who 137 is?” Hubert asks, his eyebrows turned sideways in a concerned expression. Dean stares at them, his own face impassive.

“No.” He lies.

“He’s the house maniac.” Lauren fires in what seems to be disgusted loathe.

Vincent sighs and shakes his head, “He’s one of the patients most cared here, since he has a lot of problems going through his head.”

“He’s the devil in human form.” Lauren sneers, and her small hands are balled into fists. Dean’s eyebrow rises in the air and he’s surprised Vincent here hasn’t been punched yet.

“Did he try to hurt you?” Dean demands, keen to know, and he grabs her wrist in a way he knows always makes women confess their deepest secrets. All with Dean close to them and a look into their eyes and they recite the Bible of their lives on ahead and back.

Lauren yanks back and turns part of her back to him, “Well, no but—”

Hubert rolls his eyes and cuts her off, waving his hand in the air on her direction and Vincent stays quiet, his gaze perceived in Lauren’s direction and she crosses her arms across her chest.

“She got traumatized after Albert told her exactly what life story she cleaned the face of, and she’s convinced that if she hadn’t finished a second before he would have tore her face off with his teeth.”

“Well,” Lauren argues, “He isn’t exactly the most stable—”

“He’s never hurt anyone here much and has never killed again so—”

“ _Much,_ Hubert! I might have been the first to be dead in his hands and—”

“Fat chance. You think yourself to be too special and, ‘sides, he—”

Dean glances up at the tall figure of Vincent and watches as the young man, nearly Dean’s age, stares at the ground and ignores the bickering of the two other people aside of him. Dean decides not to interrupt the internal strife or the thinking so he tries his best to make his absence go unnoticed, at least until he’s upstairs.

As he quietly jogs upstairs, he grips the gun in his belt, not willing to enter the lunatic’s chamber without being careful. Who knows? This might be his lucky night and he might cross paths with a loose patient gone barmy who killed his wife and three kids before swallowing their hearts.

 _137._ The rusty plate makes Dean pause longer than he should have and it’s honestly creepy how he’s about to open the white door to one of the compartments and let one of them go, no matter who is inside.

As he punches in the code and the door unlocks, just waiting for Dean to push it open, an alarm goes off and Dean curses loudly and he kicks the door out of frustration. In a matter of seconds, when he glances around, he sees that through the small windows of each white door, above the plate with the room number, there are many pair of eyes staring at him, eyes wide, tired and with insanity swimming through them.

Dean knows he has no time to waste since in no time they’ll be surrounded by guards and workers, possibly with guns and weapons of their own. He knows that whether it’s allowed or not, they won’t hesitate to shoot a patient or its partner in order to protect one of _them._ The _sane._ Because, really, who _wants_ to be rational when madness is much more fun?

Dean struggles with pushing the door open, seeing how heavy it is and that makes the situation even worse. Not only is he delaying, but now he knows that everyone working here are probably bodybuilders considering they have to open these doors every day. He ignores the silent stares from other patients he still feels.

Once the door is now partially open, enough to have Dean slip through it, he eyes the room and looks for the familiar mop of brown hair and strong body structure. Not finding it on the bed, he starts to panic.

“How much of an idiot _are_ you?”

Dean yelps and he steps forward, turns rapidly around and sighs in both relief and annoyance as he sees the figure he’s been yearning to be close to in a long time, not separated by a table.

“Fuck, Sam.” Dean wastes no time in holding our his arms and taking his younger brother’s form into his arms and he hugs him tight because he can and he’s been waiting for this opportunity for half a year now. Half a year of being forced to continue on the road without his brother.

Sam hesitantly wraps his arms around him as well, and Dean tenses, sees that being in this Mental shit place actually _has_ left a scar into Sam’s eyes. But that thought is excused as Sam leans in closer and buries his face into Dean’s neck.

“Dean.” He murmurs.

Dean leans back and pats Sam’s shoulder once more, grins.

“Alright, I’m all into this cheesy ‘long time no see’ crap and what comes with it, but we sort of have to make a run out of this place before we’re caught.”

Sam grins back and laughs, short and shakes his head. He turns his back to Dean and starts his way to his bed, the alarm still ringing annoyingly through their ears.

“Did you really not think they didn’t have alarms here which activated at night, Dean?” He asks, and Dean curiously walks towards to Sam, who is kneeled behind his bed seeming to be doing something vital.

“Well, I mean, excuse _me_ but this place seems to barely have enough money to pay for their lives and I would have thought that by typing the code they’d be deactivated. Either way, what are you doing?”

Sam grunts a couple times, seeming to be struggling with something and Dean turns to be on the other side and sees Sam unscrewing the nails on the vent with the screwdriver Dean had before. He doesn’t ask how the younger man got hold of it without him noticing. He doesn’t need to be reminded that he’s losing his _game_ since Sam will probably taunt him for it soon enough and Dean rather avoid the matter.

“Now, I hate to break it to you, Sammy, but we have no time to waste since we’ll be ambushed by possibly _cops_ any minute now and we’re not going to fit through that small ass vent.”

Sam rolls his eyes and doesn’t turn away, grabs a nail and the vent comes off with a loud smack. He throws a nail down to the other side.

When the noise echoes away from them, Sam pulls back and wipes his hand son his white pants, leaving black stains from the dirty vents which, perhaps, have never been cleaned before. He stands up and then proceeds to grab the edge of the door and begin pulling at it.

“It’s not for us to crawl through it,” He states, “But the noise of the nail falling through will give them the idea that we’re already going through another room and into the larger vents, where they are large enough to have anyone climb through. This will throw them off course and confuse them, making them delay. If this doesn’t work, than the least it’ll do is make them split into smaller groups, making us have to deal with less people right on our tail.”

Dean nods slowly, processing much slower than Sam what he just said and he finally sighs and moves to quickly pat his younger brother on the shoulder. Sam doesn’t stop pulling at the heavy door, though he sends a surprised glance his way.

“It’s good to have you back, Sammy.”

Sam grins and he pants as he tries to pull the door again, Dean instantly going to help him and Sam strains to say, “Was my acting good enough, Dean?”

“Are you talking about the way you fooled the government into thinking you’re a lunatic?" Sam laughs shortly, and he sends a grin his brother's way, "And about how you got yourself transferred into building C for believing that a motherfucking _demon_ killed our mother. Oh, and how you _supposedly_ murdered Jessica just to know which patient in this building the same demon possesses? Yeah, I’d say those stupid theater classes you took in middle school were handy enough.”


End file.
